Strong-Willed
by allisvanity
Summary: A teenage G Callen meets his match. No, not in a romantic sense. Definitely not. Contains an alias, a stolen car, a gruff Probation Officer, and a nice foster mom for a change.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I don't own NCIS: LA or the characters thereof. Also, suing me would be a monumental waste of time. I basically own this laptop, some books, and a ferocious beast that only _looks_ like an elderly Miniature Dachshund.

Crime & Punishment

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. No, scratch that, it was still a good idea. He just couldn't understand how he'd been caught. He'd planned everything so carefully.

Yet, here he was, in what was probably the only interrogation in the only police- no, sheriff's- station in this ridiculous town –community?, waiting to be questioned.

On the bright side, they had no idea who he was. He only had fake ID with him in the car, and for some reason they hadn't fingerprinted him yet. Maybe these hicks didn't have the print database-thing cops in L.A. used.

At that thought, he couldn't decide whether to scoff at the town's pathetic excuse for law enforcement, or be ashamed that they'd managed to catch him.

He knew they could hold him without knowing his identity, and if he refused to tell them they would probably call in someone who _could_ run his prints.

The part that bothered him, though, was how they had known that car was stolen. There was no way its owner reported it; that's why he had picked it. No way a drug dealer would report his stolen car to the police. It had been home to all sorts of drug paraphernalia when he'd hotwired it.

No, a drug dealer would assume that some idiot car thieves ignorant of his reputation had it at a chop shop. And, being a criminal, he could find all the nearby chop shops. He would've looked there, not because he couldn't buy a new car, but to ensure everyone knew not to mess with his stuff.

It never would occur to him that someone took the car to actually drive it, and he didn't have wide enough reach to look for it outside the city. Yeah, G had planned this well, or so he thought. He rubbed at his face in irritation and fatigue. He'd been in here for hours now.

Just then, the door to the cramped room swung open and in strolled that very drug dealer. G's eyes widened, and he jumped out of his chair and backed away from the man.

The dealer laughed heartily, which only freaked G out more.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He yelled. Okay, he didn't so much yell as squeak, but come on. There was a known drug dealer from L.A. inside a sheriff's office, and looking perfectly at home. That was grounds for some shock.

The dealer's laughter had only intensified at his squeaked-out question, but now he sobered up and gave G an appraising look.

"So you're the one who swiped my car, huh? Pretty ballsy, I gotta say."

G honestly had no answer to that. He just stared at the guy, eyes still wide and wary.

The door was still open, and now a sheriff's deputy entered. He chuckled a bit at G's expression, and motioned at him to have a seat.

G still wasn't sure what this was. Was the deputy in cahoots with the dealer? No, that didn't make sense. How would a local-market-only drug dealer from L.A. know a deputy in Boondocks-Hickville, California?

He was still standing at the back of the room, staring at the man he knew as a drug dealer, when the deputy rolled his eyes and gestured more emphatically at the chair.

G sat hesitantly, keeping his eyes on the victim of his grand theft auto. At that, the dealer took his own seat, and nodded at the deputy, who left the room.

The guy leaned back in the chair casually, and said,

"So I understand we still don't have an ID on you. Well, not a real one anyway."

G grimaced but maintained eye contact. He stayed silent.

The man, who was possibly _not_ a drug dealer, smirked and went on,

"Well, fine. I'll start with my name. Detective Jim Romero, LAPD."

His eyes expanded from saucer-sized to platter-sized.

Drug dealer-slash-LAPD Detective laughed.

"Yeah, I guess I can see where that'd surprise you."

The ability to speak suddenly returned to him, and he blurted out,

"I...I thought you were a drug dealer."

At that, Detective Romero's face became more solemn, and almost even sympathetic.

"Yeah. I work undercover Narcotics. I've been using that cover for several months now."

Something clicked in G's mind, and he groaned and ground out the question,

"So the car I, uh, borrowed, was, um..."

The detective filled in the blank, "Police property, yeah."

G grunted. "Guess that's how they knew it was s-" He caught himself, "Borrowed."

Detective Romero just nodded at him. Then his expression softened, and he asked,

"So. What made you decide to steal a drug dealer's car? Got a death wish?"

G snorted. "No... If you really _were_ a drug dealer, you never would've reported the car stolen, would you? So no one would've known."

Romero nodded again, seeming to understand. "And of course a dealer would assume the thief took it for parts, not to drive it out the city."

G nodded, scowling. "'Course my 'drug dealer' just had to be a narc. Figures."

The detective grinned at him. "Yeah, that is pretty bad luck. I'll give you that."

Finally getting over the shock of Romero's sudden appearance, G took a deep breath and tried to think about his options here. He'd stolen police property, so there would be charges, no doubt about it. And with an LAPD detective here, they were going to run his prints, if not here, then in L.A., where he'd be facing the charges.

They'd find out his identity pretty quickly, then. He might as well cooperate.

He'd just come to that conclusion when Romero started up again,

"So. Jacob Kerry, huh? You don't look like a Jacob to me."

G gritted his teeth. This was not going to be fun.

"No. My name's G Callen."

Romero raised an eyebrow at that, just like everyone did.

"Yeah, just G."

The detective shrugged. A lot of people did that, too. "OK. You from L.A., then?"

G nodded.

His interrogator went on. "You really eighteen?"

"Nope."

"Got your parents' number?"

"Yeah. You'll need that, and my case worker's number."

Romero tilted his head.

G shrugged. "I'm in foster care. If I get in trouble with the law, my case worker's gotta be called in, too."

He took the piece of paper Romero slid across the desk and scribbled down the phone numbers.

"So, how'm I gettin' back to the city?"

Romero paused and seemed to consider it for a moment, then said, "I'll drive you. It'd probably take your foster parents a bit to get here, besides, you're still under arrest."

Detective Not-a-drug-dealer wasn't at his trial. G figured since he worked undercover, he probably wasn't supposed to appear in court and the jury just got a transcript of his report or something.

He was found guilty of all charges. He'd already been on probation when he'd decided to go to Vegas, compounding his sentence. Then there was the fake ID. And driving without a license. At least he hadn't brought any drugs or beer with him.

Considering his priors, he knew he was miraculously lucky to get only a 6 month sentence in juvie, followed by probation until his eighteenth birthday.

Still, it rankled at him. He wasn't even sixteen yet, and he was supposed to spend almost all his teenage years paying for...what? Escaping a fairly awful foster family? Going to see his friend, one of the few people he trusted, in Vegas?

Granted, they'd been planning to commit many worse crimes together there, but still. He knew rationally this was a perfectly fair punishment, but he didn't really care. None of these people- the jury, the judge, the social workers- understood him.

He wasn't going to live a normal life anyway, what did it matter if he became a criminal? They said that word with such horror that he'd almost laughed aloud. He already _was_ a criminal, and a damn talented one at that.

He'd been caught shoplifting once or twice, using pot, and drinking, but those blemishes on his record hardly did him justice. His most valuable skills he kept quiet.

He'd charmed- okay, conned- many a social worker, teacher, and foster parent, not to mention girls. He had a couple credit card fraud schemes that no one had a clue about, and a few more he'd retired. Just last month he'd made over five hundred bucks off these and some other scams, meaning he didn't have to rely on foster families and orphanages to take care of him.

As an added bonus, he was aware he had a knack for lying, for telling people what they wanted to hear, and even for being what they wanted him to be.

That was usually how he got out of trouble: he'd play poor innocent victim of the system. He'd make himself cry (not easy, but it could be done), and he'd avoid eye contact with adults as if he were ashamed, then slowly raise his eyes to meet theirs to indicate they'd gotten through to him.

Longish, wispy blond hair, bright blue eyes, light skin, and small size, all of which made him appear younger and more helpless, didn't hurt.

Even so, he knew what kids like him could expect out of life. Prison, probably, by his mid twenties; and he'd never even entertained the thought of growing old or "settling down." That was for nice, normal people. The kind of people who had families.

But no matter how much the punishment bothered him, he couldn't get out of it, so he sucked it up and served his time in juvie. He actually got out after just four months, although when he realized that meant he had to attend the last six weeks of school, he nearly volunteered to go back.

He knew he'd been assigned a Probation officer (whom he'd decided to call Probie, just to irritate the guy) before he left juvie, but no one told him the Probie's name until a guard escorted him to the man's office on his first day out.

When he saw the name plate on the door, he mentally groaned. The guard laughed. OK, so maybe he groaned out loud. But it was justified.

His new probation officer was Stephen F. Healy, whose initials were better known to G's fellow delinquents as Straight From Hell.

The guard opened the door and motioned at him to go inside. An ancient-looking man nodded, apparently communicating dismissal, and the guard shut the door and walked off, his boots stomping down the tiled hallway.

The old guy smiled at him pleasantly and said,

"Please, take a seat."

G obliged him.

He continued, "Well. Mr.," he glanced at a file, "G Callen. I'm Officer Stephen Healy."

G may have been a criminal, but he wasn't an idiot. He knew better than to break the rules at first, especially with a P.O. with such a tough reputation. He needed to wait a while, get the man thinking of him as cooperative.

So he said _Yes, Mr. Healy_, and _No, Mr. Healy_; and followed his probation conditions scrupulously. He even kept up with school, attending every class, completing every assignment. The teachers at this new school gave the old man nothing but good comments.

All this lasted two weeks. By then he was getting incredibly restless, so he decided to test the waters a bit and skip one class, the last of the day, on the assumption that most likely no one would even notice.

And if they did notice, it was just one class. The teacher seemed to like him, and he was doing well in it, so who cared if he missed a day of Geometry?

He left school grounds with a grin, excited about his first spell of freedom in- oh, God, four and a half months. He'd already decided to lie low that day, so if he was caught the only charge would be skipping class. This was just a test, after all.

He headed straight to the Ladera Park, near his favorite pizza place. His current family's head, Mrs. Young, worked two jobs and there were two younger kids there, so he probably knew Antonelli's Pizza better than their kitchen.

The park was actually pretty quiet, and so lightly policed, with enough nooks and crannies for him to hide out comfortably and people watch until school let out.

Plus, when it was busier it was a decent place to pickpocket. Not that he'd be doing any of that today, but he could at least practice selecting marks.

G passed a pleasant hour there and headed "home" for the day, making the required phone call to his P.O. when he arrived. He had hated probation before this latest incident and he hated it even more now. At least his old P.O. hadn't taken the whole thing so seriously.

For the last two weeks he'd left the Young house only for school or to grab dinner, and he couldn't even do that past his nine PM curfew.

But no one had caught him today, he reflected while preparing for bed. Maybe he'd be back up to old tricks in a couple weeks. He fell asleep contentedly thinking up new scams, reviewing the marks he'd identified at the park today, and practicing his innocent look for Mrs. Young and his case worker.

The next morning he was up obscenely early, probably because he'd gone to bed at nine. He really needed something to do. Even juvie hadn't been this boring, and it was only slightly more regimented than his present schedule.

He fixed the Young family's toaster, then showered, dressed, and grabbed a Pop Tart on his way out the door. Sometime in there he allowed himself some pride at getting away with skipping yesterday.

As he was walking up to the curb, the bus approached his driveway. And kept right on going. He spluttered and ran after it a few steps, before realizing he didn't want to go to school anyway. But of course if he didn't show up at least one of his teachers was sure to notice. He fumed for a second, then went to return to the house to get bus fare.

"Callen!"

He jerked his head around, looking for the source of the yell. Then he wished he hadn't found it. Mr. Healy was leaning on a beat-up white Ford Fiesta, parked across the street.

G looked warily at the P.O.- and disgustedly at the car- and asked cautiously, "What are you doing here?"

Mr. Healy grinned. G's stomach dropped. He'd been found out.

The old man calmly, with only a hint of glee, answered "Here to drive you to school. Get in."

G thought about making a smartass remark about getting in cars with strangers, and thought better of it. He eyed Old Hellion (his new nickname for Healy) the whole time, but he climbed in nonetheless.

Mr. Healy drove him to school in complete silence. G just squirmed.

As they pulled up to the school, G tried not to sigh in relief. Before they'd even approached the walkway, he was grabbing his backpack, but Healy didn't stop there. G froze.

Mr. Healy drove around to the lot and parked. He pocketed his keys, got out of the car, and was halfway to the building by the time G managed to get himself together and out the door.

He refused to run to catch up with his P.O., though. And if anyone had observed that he speed walked, he would've denied it.

Turns out, the old man wasn't just planning to walk him into the school. He walked G to the principal's office, told him to sit outside in that maddeningly calm tone of his, and talked with the principal in private for about five minutes.

That wasn't the end of it either. He then escorted G to homeroom, where he was about two minutes late, and Mr. London was a stickler. So the room was fairly quiet when G walked in, Mr. Healy a step behind him.

Everyone looked up and watched as Mr. Healy motioned at G to sit. He obeyed, too humiliated to even protest. In that instant G realized he didn't remember ever being walked to class, even as a little kid. He was used to being that independent guy who lived virtually free of parents.

And now his P.O. was talking quietly, though not quietly enough for G's taste, with Mr. London, who nodded a few times and shot a glance G's way. He gulped.

Then suddenly Mr. Healy was leaving- not soon enough- and G was left with a classroom full of gawking teenagers. They didn't know Healy was G's probation officer, but then that was almost worse. They'd be gossiping about him all day.

By lunchtime G was positively fuming. He'd been right, most of the school was buzzing with gossip about him and his mysterious escort. Theories he'd overheard ranged from "father" to "billionaire benefactor" in plausibility.

He only had three and a half more weeks here, but Healy had completely wrecked them. Secrets didn't exist in high school, not really, and before long someone would know Healy'd been there because G was in trouble with the law. Then he'd be _that kid_.

He didn't really mind it so much, except that it meant he'd be under constant scrutiny until school let out.

The worst part of this situation was the helplessness. He was always the one to find the loophole, exploit the weakness, whether it was in social services, a security system, or his foster families' rules. He always had a way out.

He couldn't think of a way out of this. He'd tried to sneak in just a tiny bit of freedom, and it had backfired spectacularly. Healy had not only known he'd skipped (just _one_ class), he'd arranged to talk to G's teachers and drive him to school the next morning. He was willing to bet the bastard would pick him up, too.

He was trapped, now, and the more he thought about it the angrier he got. He was vaguely aware that underneath the anger was pure and powerful terror at being at someone's mercy, but he ignored that and focused on the rage.

So when Mr. Healy, as predicted, showed up to drive him to the Young house, he was perhaps not in the best state of mind. At least, that was the best excuse he could ever find for what he did when the old man pulled up and flashed that infuriating grin.

G punched him. Hard. In the eye.

His knuckles screamed at him, joining his better judgment. He ignored both and stood there, aloof, glaring coldly at Healy while several teachers rushed over to the Fiesta and students stared.

Mr. Patterson, a chemistry teacher, was there, pulling at Hellion's arm and talking to him. Probably asking if he was okay. G just glared. Patterson glanced up at him, and yelled at another teacher to call the police.

At that, Mr. Healy straightened up, removed his hand from his eye, and calmly said,

"No. That's fine. Don't call the police."

Mr. Patterson gave him a look that plainly asked _Are you crazy?,_ and G realized his own expression probably said the same thing.

But Healy just waved the chem teacher off, and motioned at G, then at his car. G decided not to push his luck any further and jumped in, trying not to think about the consequences of what he'd just done.

He'd been in trouble before, but as far as the system knew, he'd never been violent. He shook his head to get rid of those thoughts while he buckled himself into Healy's car.

Healy climbed into the Fiesta, put on his seatbelt, and drove away from the school, all with a perfectly calm, blank face. G shot glances over at his P.O., trying to figure out what was happening.

When he realized they weren't driving to his foster home, or to Healy's office, he started getting worried. Not scared, exactly, just worried. When he realized they were in a part of L.A. he wasn't familiar with, _then_ he got scared.

Was Healy going to hurt him? He'd heard that the man had been in the military. Or maybe he was going to give G some sort of lecture, or maybe he was going to try good cop and play therapist. Maybe Healy was just driving him to a police station, and he'd only waved off Mr. Patterson because he wanted to deliver G to the cops personally. Maybe he was going to leave him in gang territory.

Somewhere in the back of his mind G realized his speculations were getting crazier and crazier as he grew more panicked, so he was actually a bit relieved when Mr. Healy finally slowed and parked.

G craned his head, trying to see if he remembered the neighborhood Healy had stopped in. He didn't. That was odd; he made a point of learning the area around his foster homes and even around his schools, to scope out hideouts in case he needed to run away, or good places to lift a car, or pickpocket…But he didn't know this area at all.

Just how long had Healy been driving? The car's clock read five thirty, so about an hour and a half. No wonder he'd started to panic.

He realized Healy was looking at him, but couldn't quite bring himself to meet the old man's eyes. He looked around the area some more, then at his feet, then back at the clock, and at his backpack on the floorboard. He didn't even remember putting it there.

The neighborhood was nice enough. Neat little houses lined a narrow street, with a few pitiful looking trees planted in brown yards. Probably not rich people, then. People with money usually kept their lawns watered.

But the houses were well-maintained, and there were bikes, scooters, and a kiddie pool in sight, so it was a kid-friendly neighborhood. At least that probably meant Healy hadn't brought him here to beat him up.

Healy apparently wasn't going to say anything. After a minute, G couldn't take it anymore; he glanced up at his P.O. and immediately grimaced as he saw the beginnings of a bruise around the old man's eye. Then he realized Healy was looking at him, too, and smiling, of all things.

Now G couldn't look _away_ from the man. His fear must've shown on his face, because Healy started laughing too. This only freaked G out more, and at that point he decided to tell consequences to go screw themselves and went to open the door and run away.

Healy's voice stopped him, though. "Whoa, whoa, kid, wait. I'm sorry; it's just you looked so scared. Kinda cracked me up. I'm not gonna hurt you, I promise."

G eased back into his seat, watching the old man cautiously. Healy smiled, this time more gently.

The probation officer chuckled softly a few more times, then went on, "Look, kid. It's fine."

G blurted out, "But I hit you." _Oh, great going, genius. Remind him, that'll help._

Healy smirked, as if he knew what his charge was thinking, and replied,

"Yeah, you did. But I've had worse. Besides, now I've got you."

G's eyes widened and shot up at Healy, who just smirked wider, then continued in a firm tone,

"Here's the deal, Mr. Callen. You cooperate with the terms of your probation- including the new terms I worked out with a judge friend of mine today- and no one will ever know about this incident. You skip another class, pick another pocket- yeah, I know about that, use pot, smoke, drink, or anything else that violates your probation, and you will find yourself in court being tried as an adult for assaulting me. Basically, from now on you're gonna actlike a model teenager: go to school, get good grades- that's C's or better, by the way, and, oh, one of the new terms is you've gotta do an extracurricular activity, and absolutely no trouble. Got it?"

G was still gaping, but managed to nod his head.

"So…you're not gonna report what…what happened?"

"Not unless you give me a reason."

G nodded even as his mind raced, trying to figure out Healy's game. He was being blackmailed, he was sure of that. But was it only to make him cooperate? Why would he go to that much trouble? He glanced up at the old man again.

Healy was looking straight to the car's right, at a little powder blue house with some missing shingles. He seemed to have zoned out. G watched him for a minute.

"What do you wanna ask?"

G jumped; it seemed to he had zoned out as much as Healy.

"Uh…what?"

Healy smiled and turned to look at him. "I said, what do you want to ask me?

G got nervous; it was never a good idea to push a blackmailer.

"Well, kid?"

It seemed he'd have to answer.

"Um…Just why-? Why are you-?" Nope, he couldn't do it.

"Why not just turn you in? Why blackmail you into cooperating instead?"

Maybe he didn't have to say it.

"I got my reasons. If you're good maybe I'll tell you later."

G nodded, just because he didn't know how else to respond. There was one more thing he was was worried about, though.

"Mr. Healy?"

"What?"

"That's all…that's all you want? You just want me to…cooperate with my probation?"

At that, Mr. Healy sobered up, seeming to sense this was important. The slight smile he'd been sporting left his face instantly. He met G's eyes and stated,

"Yeah, kid. That's all I want."

Even though there were only a few weeks left in the school year (three and a half, not that anyone was counting), Mr. Healy did indeed make G join an extracurricular activity. He'd picked baseball. Mrs. Young had been surprisingly cool- happy, even- about having to buy him the gear.

Anyway, John Fremont High School had a new second string catcher. It was a good thing he'd played at a couple orphanages he'd been at, or he might not have made the team at all; they were pretty good.

He also had to get nothing but C's or better now. Since he hadn't paid attention in school since about fifth grade, if he even attended, this required a tutor.

The tutoring thing wouldn't have been so bad, except that Mr. Healy knew how to take the fun out of anything. He'd asked for a male tutor.

The old man- G had decided to stop calling him Hellion, even in his head, because he was afraid it might slip out- had also apparently made friends with all his teachers. And the Youngs. And the local police officers. G had seen him with some he recognized from eating at Antonelli's at the Probation Office.

G suspected he'd even read the files of the other system kids who went to Fremont, and asked around about any friends G had made while there.

Of course, he hadn't made any friends there, because, as predicted, he was now _that kid_, the one everyone knew was in trouble with the law; and Fremont wasn't that kind of school. Mr. Healy driving him to school and picking him up every day didn't help.

At first, G had wondered how the hell the man had time to do that. He'd asked the secretary at the Probation office, who'd told him that Mr. Healy, alone among P.O.s, only had a few charges at a time. It seemed he wasn't kidding about having a friend who was a judge.

Another new condition for his probation was community service. It had been a requirement all along, but it was just a few hours, and he'd figured he'd put it off until closer to the end of his probation.

Now he had to do ten hours a week. Since he was now in school, tutoring, or practice all week, there went his weekend. G figured keeping him busy was part of Mr. Healy's plan.

By the end of the three and a half weeks, he was going a little crazy. He'd been looking forward to his summer, to having free time again, the whole time.

But about a week before school let out, he'd said something like that to Mr. Healy, who'd had a good laugh, then told him that wouldn't be happening.

Evidently another condition was that he had to either find work over the summer or volunteer somewhere. G had asked hopefully if volunteer work would count toward his community service requirement. Healy laughed some more and said no.

Then he'd added that G would also be attending summer school to catch up.

So there went summer too.

At first, he was still terrified of being at Mr. Healy's mercy, even more after the old man had blackmailed him. But Healy seemed to have been telling the truth about only wanting cooperation.

In fact, as time went on, he grew to actually trust the man a little. He still resented being controlled, and resented being blackmailed even more, but the sting of those things lessened.

It got to the point where he had to remind himself of them when he felt almost friendly towards his P.O. After a while he forgot to remind himself.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Not much plot happens in this chapter; it's mostly G's thoughts and some background.

Rehabilitation

Summer finally came, and G, to his shock, managed to get a job at a smoothie place near Mrs. Young's house. He didn't know what possessed them to hire a delinquent, but he suspected Mr. Healy had something to do with it.

Whether Healy helped him get the job or not, he kept driving him to community service, the Probation Office, and summer school.

Around mid August, G found himself reflecting on the events of the last few months while he mopped the floor at Sing's Smoothies & Stuff. He still didn't know why Mr. Healy hadn't turned him in. He was still living with Mrs. Young, which was kind of shocking by itself.

She was pretty nice, and she worked hard to provide for them. She didn't complain about buying him things for school, and she made sure the kitchen was stocked with his favorite snack foods.

He was the oldest kid in the house, and Mrs. Young wasn't dating or anything, so he was safe there. The other kids, three of them now, were extra work Healy hadn't had to arrange.

Mrs. Young worked late most nights, so G wound up feeding the kids dinner, and now that school was out, occasionally lunch when Mrs. Chavez across the street couldn't babysit them.

Deja was the oldest, at eleven. She was his relief pitcher (when did he start using baseball metaphors? Damn probation), helping him out when he was too tired to take care of things. She was a great kid.

Aaron was nine, and the most trouble of any of them. He got in fights in school, or so he said, but after a couple times G figured out he was being bullied. He taught the kid some techniques for fighting back, and one day Aaron came back, bruised and sore, but proud, and he hadn't come home with bruises since.

Matthew was Aaron's little brother; he was five. Not that G would admit it to anyone, but he adored the preschooler. He had huge, chocolate-colored eyes, which he used to great effect to get the last cookie or the toy out of the cereal box. No one really minded.

The boys had been removed from their mother just a year ago when their teacher had reported neglect. Based on things Matthew had said, G gathered she was an addict. Aaron wouldn't talk about it at all. He could respect that.

Deja was one of those kids whose mom was involved in a constant tug-of-war with the state for custody. She'd told him one night over instant noodles that she'd been taken by social workers the first time at age seven, and since then she'd been sent back to her mom, then taken back to foster care four times.

She had six younger brothers and sisters at home, so it was no wonder she was able to help with Aaron and Matthew. Now he wondered how he and Mrs. Young had made it before June, when she came.

The stories of other system kids always fascinated him. His foster siblings' moms were a drug addict and probably a prostitute, though Deja had never said that for sure, but he still kind of envied them. He'd said as much to other foster kids before, and they'd said they kind of envied him too.

Still, he thought his jealousy was more justified. At least they knew who they were. The only evidence of a life before foster care he had was that now-battered duffel bag and a few thousand theories about it.

On the other hand, things were about as OK as they ever had been. This was one of his best foster homes so far.

Mr. Healy, for whatever reason, was helping him, he could see that now, though of course he'd keep that revelation to himself.

And it turned out his life being essentially taken over by his P.O. had an unforeseen benefit. His case worker left him alone. The last time he'd seen her was- he thought back- nearly two months ago, and she'd said something snippy about probation officers.

He'd figured that meant Healy was stepping on her toes a bit and inwardly cheered. She _hadn't_ turned his life upside-down (aside from the usual way of moving him around), and she was still worse to deal with than Healy.

Last month she'd done her required checkup on the house while he was at summer school, and for their required meeting, he'd turned up at her office, but she was "out," so he'd met with an intern, who forged her signature on the paperwork. So, vast improvement there.

Fremont was a good school. Once he'd started paying attention, his grades had steadily climbed. Tutoring with Nick, though the guy was a smug, condescending asshole, had helped too.

Of course three and a half weeks hadn't been enough to help his sophomore year as a whole, but his last two week report (Yeah, Fremont did that) had shown B's and C's. Okay, C's and one B.

It was still the best he'd done since elementary school, when he actually cared about school and made straight A's when his home situation allowed. Even though he'd only worked on it because Healy made him, it was kind of nice to know he could do better.

His summer school grades had been even better: A's and only two B's. The director of the program said a few days ago he was now caught up enough to make similar grades his junior year. His history teacher had hinted just yesterday that he might win the "Most Improved" award at the end of the program.

He knew "C's or better" was a condition all the way to the end of his probation on his eighteenth birthday, and lately he'd been wondering what it would be like to get A's and B's in regular school. Maybe even go to college. Instead of prison. College didn't seem likely, but at least prison didn't seem inevitable anymore.

That was Healy's influence talking, but he'd pretty much given up being angry about it. If he had a gun to his head, he might even say he kind of liked the way the old man looked after him.

The only real downside to his P.O.'s supervision was his dating life. He hadn't been able to do more than flirt for four months, and of course the four months before that he was in juvie.

Now that he thought of it, _eight months_ was kind of pathetic. But Healy had promised him a bit more freedom soon, as some of the more restrictive conditions only lasted till the six-month mark of his probation, and a few more expired on his seventeeth birthday.

He'd turned sixteen in the juvenile detention facility. Now _that_ was pathetic. He hadn't even remembered until a couple days later, when he'd seen a calendar in the director's office.

Thinking back on his life eight months ago, the whole thing was pretty sad. That foster home had been terrible, although that wasn't the only part of that life that had sucked.

But now things were better. In fact, the only real dark spot on this summer was the news about Jake. Jake Gatti was one of his oldest friends from the system. They'd been in an orphanage together when G was only six.

Jake had been eight, and had shown him around, pointing out the kids to avoid, and the kids who would help him out.

Then about a year and a half ago, they'd found themselves in the same foster home. It had belonged to G's "apathetic" category: they were reasonably well treated, and there was no alcoholic foster father or anything, but the people just hadn't cared what they did.

So Jake and G did what they wanted. They drank, smoked, both threw and attended wild parties, and generally raised hell together.

They'd also been great partners in crime. G was more of a planner, and Jake, though older, was content to follow his instructions. He was great backup, and he knew more about hotwiring cars than G could ever hope to learn.

They'd raided some cash registers, run street cons, stayed out all night, and blew what they made on beer and ocassionally…other stuff.

G had been moved from that home when Jake was seventeen. They had kept meeting up sometimes, and Jake was still his go-to accomplice.

_Not just that_, G allowed. They were also good friends. Jake was one of only a few people he'd let himself care about since he was small.

Well, except for little foster siblings. He always tried to stay away from them, but he got attached to them every time anyway. He already knew leaving Matthew would hurt like hell.

But the kids his own age or older could be just as dangerous as adults. It paid to be cautious. Jake had gotten in, though, and G was glad.

If it hadn't been for Jake, he wasn't sure he could've made it through the new foster home. Upon arrival, he'd immediately pegged the husband as a threat; he just had that dangerous look.

As it turned out, both "parents" were dangerous. On the rare night he actually spent there, he didn't sleep. Jake always knew a safe place to crash.

So when Jake had called, telling him he'd aged out of the system and was in Las Vegas, making money, then asked G to come join him, he hadn't hesitated. He'd had about enough of the foster home, of his case worker, of being controlled and manipulated, and he'd decided to run.

He'd run away before, of course, but this time he'd planned it out pretty carefully. And if the drug dealer whose car he stole hadn't turned out to be an undercover narc, he probably would've gotten away with it, at least for a while.

He'd let it slip to Detective Romero that he was going to meet someone, but he'd never said whom, or that he was headed to Vegas.

So he had no idea how Mr. Healy had known to tell him that they'd found Jake. Of course, he only wondered about that days later, because at the time he'd been focused on the news that Jake was dead.

The Las Vegas police had found him in a dodgy part of town, on the street. He'd been shot, and before that he'd been taken a beating. They'd both had worse, but it was enough that G knew his friend's death had been painful.

Mr. Healy had let him read part of the report. Based on his arrest records from L.A. they had figured Jake had conned the wrong person.

That sounded like him. Again, G was the planner. Jake tended to just _act_, and it had gotten him killed.

For a few days he'd felt guilty, like if he had just cased Romero better, he would've known the guy was a cop; wouldn't have stolen his car. He could've made it to Vegas, thought their scams through more, and Jake would still be alive.

_But if I didn't know Romero was a cop, would I have known that the guy Jake conned was a bad mark?_

After Healy had told him, he hadn't talked to anyone about it for a while. It helped that he knew part of the reason the old man told him in the first place was to scare him straight.

But almost a week later, he was waiting for Mr. Healy outside his office when a tall, gangly kid with long, dark hair and olive skin walked by.

G didn't cry; he hadn't done that in years. But he had to fight it hard, and of course, Healy returned to his office at that exact moment, holding a cup of coffee like nothing was wrong.

He'd run into his P.O.'s office, away from the crowded common area, and it took him a couple minutes to pull himself together.

Mr. Healy didn't say a word, didn't even look at him. He offered G some water, then sat at his desk and did some paperwork.

When G was together enough to start getting embarrassed about the whole thing, Mr. Healy pinned him in his seat with a stare and said quietly,

"It wasn't your fault."

The old man wasn't one to offer false comfort, or false anything for that matter, so G had believed him. He nodded, swallowed down the last of the grief, and they'd gone through their usual meeting routine.

By that point he knew Healy cared about him at least a little, but that didn't mean there was no ulterior motive to telling him about Jake. He'd wanted to make a point.

G had a powerful rebellious streak, even stronger than most foster kids. It was a point of pride that if an adult tried to teach him a lesson, he steadfastly ignored it, good or bad, important or trivial.

A (very short-term) foster mother had described him as strong-willed when he was seven, and since then he named that thing inside him, the thing that never changed, his will.

He'd long ago accepted that he had no say in where he lived, or with whom, or where he went to school; and he'd also accepted that things and people he loved could be taken from him in a heartbeat, but there was one thing he could control. No one could make him believe something, think or feel something without his consent.

_That_ was his and his alone, and that was why when one of the endless array of adults pulling his strings tried to get him to change, he planted his feet and refused.

But he'd loved Jake. No one had forced that; he just did. The guy was really his only friend. He guessed that was why even though he knew- he _knew _- that Healy was trying to teach him something through Jake's death, he did something he'd never done before.

He got the point.


End file.
